


Secret Fire

by Narya (Narya_Flame), Narya_Flame



Series: Nárë a Lindalë [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Origins, Valinor, Years of the Trees, naming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29265108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame
Summary: Names have power.  Names say everything.
Relationships: Fëanor & Olórin
Series: Nárë a Lindalë [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1133360
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elwinfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinfortuna/gifts).



> Elwin, I know you didn't finish your letter, so I don't know what you had in mind for these two. I took the opportunity to explore a few of my own headcanons about them – and then the night before reveals I had a panic as I remembered you aren't a great fan of stories about very young children. I really, really hope this doesn't hit that DNW, but if it does then please feel free to refuse the gift – no offence will be taken, it's my bad, I should have known better as I know where your previous exchange letters live!
> 
> Aþaruš is my Valarin name for Olórin. It is very deliberately _not_ a direct translation of his Quenya name.

The boy had few friends – and little wonder, for none born in Aman were truly acquainted with grief. Even for those who undertook the Journey long ago, loss was a wolf that came in the night, stealing loved ones with a snap of its shadowed jaws. The choice of Míriel, to fade from life in weariness after giving life to another, was a source of both sorrow and bewilderment. 

And the child... 

Aþaruš watched him sometimes, when he came to the gardens to sit by his mother's body. Some among the Eldar whispered that Finwë spoiled him – that he was sullen and foul-tempered – but Aþaruš pitied him, and sat beside him unseen whenever they both chanced to be in Lórien's realm. 

Once, finding the boy weeping, Aþaruš sent a light touch of power towards his mind – and coiled back in shock and awe.

The child's soul _burned_ with a pure, fierce light. Aþaruš knew it; how could he not, when it called to the heart of his own essence, when he was one of those born from its fire? Love knifed through him. He wanted to shout with laughter, with joy, with wonder. It should not be possible – and yet here it was. _The Flame made flesh..._

The boy's head was raised now, as though seeking something he could not quite perceive. Aþaruš sent a reassuring caress towards his mind, and the young face cleared. 

_Fëanáro. Spirit of Fire._

Names have power. Names say everything.


	2. Chapter 2

“Fëanáro! Fëanáro, you're back!”

He turned in time to intercept Faniel's running embrace. “Hush, little one,” he whispered. “It's the middle of the night; you'll have the whole house awake in a moment.”

“I don't care...”

“You will if your mother has anything to say about it.” He lifted his eyes to the shadowed doorway, where Nolofinwë had paused, and he smiled and tilted his head in invitation. “And you wouldn't want your brother to be in trouble for your antics, would you?”

“ _You're_ my brother too,” Faniel insisted, holding up her arms. 

“So I am,” Fëanáro agreed, picking her up. “Which means you have to do as I ask – and I would like you to be quiet for me now. Can you do that?”

She pressed her lips together and nodded solemnly. 

“Good girl.” He shifted her weight into one arm, and held the other out to his brother. “How goes it, Nolo?”

“Much the same.” Nolofinwë grasped his arm. Almost hesitantly, he said, “We've missed you.”

Outside, the call of an eagle owl sang through the silvered air. Fëanáro gripped his brother's wrist, and then let go and ruffled Faniel's dark curls. “Well, and why are you up and about at this hour?” 

“Didn't want to sleep.” 

“I had her in my room for a while, but she wouldn't settle.” Nolofinwë gave a wry grimace, clearly none too pleased to be missing his own rest. “I brought her down here so she wouldn't wake the others.”

“Wise,” Fëanáro nodded.

“I want to hear about your dream-friend again.” Faniel wriggled and sat up straight. “Náro? Please?”

“Very well. But afterwards you must promise to go back to bed, and leave your brother alone.”

“I promise.”

Nolofinwë smiled faintly. _Thank you._

 _It's my pleasure._ He stroked Faniel's hair, and began. “When I was very young, I used to go every day to the gardens of Lórien.” No need to mention why. Nolofinwë knew, and Faniel was not old enough to hear. “In those days I was often sad, having no little sister to make me smile.” He squeezed her gently as she giggled. “But I felt a little better in the gardens – and one day, sitting there alone, I felt a touch on my mind like golden fire.”

“But not the scary kind of fire,” Faniel interrupted.

“No. No, this was like the fire that keeps you warm on a cold night near the mountains.” He smiled, even the memory of it like an affectionate hand on his shoulder. He did not try to describe the sharp, unconditional love he had felt when his mind connected with that other presence, the wonder, and the sense of kinship and recognition; it was not that he lacked the words, but rather he did not feel that those things ought to be shared. They were too precious – too powerful, and too near. “For a while I thought I had imagined it, or fallen asleep, but I have felt it more than once through the years – sometimes when I have been lonely and afraid, and sometimes at my studies, or at work in the forge. A watchful friend, who lights pathways through the mind to fair things yet undreamt and unmade.” Fëanáro's smile deepened and grew quiet. “He has never yet shown himself, but I know when he is nearby; I feel the same warmth in my mind that I felt as a child in the gardens of Lórien, and dark thoughts flee like a shadow banished by flame.”


	3. Chapter 3

The flame-souled child was now a man grown, with a wife and two sons, and a third on the way. Aþaruš watched with delight as Fëanáro's mind probed ever deeper into the world, questioning, learning, connecting, extrapolating, creating, making, _burning._ Wonders were born in his workshop – subtle, exquisite feats of craft and science and art: orbs to facilitate communication at distance, for those not skilled in _ósanwë_ ; jewels that shone like the stars beyond Arda; intricate lamps whose fires never burned out.

 _Does he know what it means?_ Aþararuš sometimes wondered. _Does he understand what he is?_

Other Elves were drawn to his light like moths. He took students here and there, and taught them as much as their abilities allowed, but he himself was incomparable. Oh, there were plenty who were jealous, who resented his pride, and who whispered spiteful half-truths about him and his siblings – but he was beloved by far more. Yet for all the glory and admiration that Tirion afforded him, Fëanáro was happiest in Formenos, with his wife and children and occasional visits from his family. The volatility and the black moods remained, but he found peace outside the city, of a kind – much as he had in his youth. At times Aþaruš would settle himself in the forge, and simply observe while Fëanáro spun beauty from metal and glass. 

On one such occasion he had his son, Makalaurë, with him. The boy sat on a stool near his father's workbench, his young, slim fingers brushing over the strings of a hand-harp. His face was intent, his silver eyes full of the familiar fire, and the world itself seemed to lean in and listen to the music he wove. Aþaruš felt the same love and awe that had stirred in him when he first saw Fëanáro at work.

_What will you become, child, I wonder? What will you do with those gifts?_

The boy stopped playing, and he lifted his head and looked straight at the corner Aþaruš occupied. 

“What is it, Makalaurë?” Fëanáro asked. His eyes remained fixed on the plans rolled out on his bench.

“Someone's there.” The boy's voice was cautious, but not afraid. He frowned a little and put his head to one side, then his features relaxed, and he smiled. “Someone kind.”

Fëanáro seemed unperturbed. “Tell me what you hear.”

Makalaurë closed his eyes. “Fire. Good fire, that keeps you warm and chases the shadows away. Light. Warm, golden light like Laurelin. Magic – the funny kind that you feel before you go to sleep, when your thoughts muddle up and you start to dream.” He opened one eye and grinned impishly. “And a temper like Mother's.”

 _So much you see already?_ Aþaruš wondered.

“A temper like Mother's?” Fëanáro chuckled; he set aside his scrolls, and looked directly at the corner. “Well? What say you, Olórin? Is my son right?”

 _Oh, Fëanáro._ Aþaruš almost laughed. He donned the form he used to walk among the Elves in Tirion – silver-white robes, blue eyes, and long, straight, red hair – and Makalaurë gasped with delight.

“You knew I was there, then.” The Maia folded his arms. “Olórin, you call me?” 

Fëanáro smiled. “I do.” He laid a hand on his breast and inclined his head respectfully. “And I am glad to meet you at last.”

**Author's Note:**

> Going from the little Valarin we have, I believe Aþaruš translates roughly as “flame-appointed” (cf. “I am a servant of the Secret Fire”). Raiyana and I had an interesting discussion about the extent to which individuals would have chosen names whose sounds felt right to them, and to what extent meaning would have simply attached itself to sound. She also helped me land on something sensible-sounding for Olórin's earlier name. Thank you. 
> 
> The line “Names have power. Names say everything” was borrowed with permission from Spiced Wine's _Magnificat of the Damned._ I also first encountered the idea of Fëanor as the Flame Imperishable incarnate in her work, though I could write an essay on the canonical incidents and allusions that back it up (the circumstances of his mother's death, his body spontaneously combusting when he died, and the descriptive line on p. 64 of the Silm “as if a secret fire were kindled within him”, to name but a few).
> 
> P. 22 of _The Silmarillion_ implies that Olórin never mingled openly with the Elves – but he must have shown himself to some of them, otherwise how would they have known to record that “he walked among them unseen”? Plus, Gandalf is still a Fëanor fanboy in the Third Age. The passage in _The Two Towers_ where he talks about it could be read as implying that they didn't interact – however, see this passage from p. 505 of _The Unfinished Tales_ :
> 
> _“For it is said indeed that being embodied the Istari had need to learn much anew by slow experience, and though they knew whence they came the Blessed Realm was to them a vision from afar off, for which (so long as they remained true to their mission) they yearned exceedingly.”_
> 
> In this context I think it makes a lot of sense that he would want to use the palantír to bring his most precious memories from the West closer to the surface. I also think that, given the very specific connotations of _olos_ (UT p. 513), it's not a stretch to imagine that Olórin might have lit Fëanor's mental way to some of his triumphs of craft and scholarship. 
> 
> Fëanor actually giving him the name Olórin is admittedly more of a stretch, but if anyone were to draw together the linguistic and experiential strands of “fair constructions” lighting the way out of despair, well, Fëanor seems as good a choice as any. 
> 
> And before anyone asks why Olórin didn't do anything to stop Fëanor from swearing the Oath and spilling blood at Alqualondë, _The Silmarillion_ is very clear that his influence was over “those who listened to him.” I think by this point, Fëanor is past listening to anyone.


End file.
